The Light Between Us Box Set

by Thomas Grant Bruso

  His mother walked him to a private sofa in the far corner, for the two of them, away from everybody else. His mother slipped her thin arm around Christian’s back and hugged him to her bosom. Christian laid his head across her chest and listened to her beating heart and wondered if she would leave him one day and go to heaven like Aunt Betty.

  He’d heard stories from other kids at school that some mothers abandoned their children, moved away, and left their kids to fend for themselves, never to return to their child’s life. Christian hoped his mom would never do that to him.

  He lifted his head and looked up at his mother’s face. “Would you ever leave me?” he asked her.

  She looked down at him surprised. “No. Goodness, never, Chrissy.”

  Christian didn’t like the nickname his family had given him, but he half smiled, his mouth a thin line of doubt. “Everybody dies, right?” he asked.

  He felt his mother’s hands tighten around his waist, squeezing her body into his, showing him how much she loved him. She nodded. “One day, yes.”

  Christian turned to where Aunt Betty lay still, asleep. He watched people come and go from the side of the coffin. They kneeled in prayer, their fingers knotted together, eyes closed, their heads bowed in front of them. Some hobbled away, dabbing their eyes with tissues, crying. Some were louder than others.

  From between a small gap of bodies standing a few yards in front of him, Christian could see Aunt Betty propped up far enough in her coffin, wearing a white dress with flowers on it, her hands folded across her stomach. Her eyes were closed, mouth shut. It must be annoying for Aunt Betty, Christian thought, since his aunt loved to talk and tell jokes and funny stories. Now, she wasn’t saying anything, and nobody was laughing.

  “Do you want to go up now?” his mother asked him, noticing him staring in the direction of his aunt.

  He shook his head.

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “Whenever you’re ready, let me know. I’ll go with you.”

  Christian looked out into the busy room of people.

  He listened to the loud sound of voices, and the quiet whispers of other family members talking and meeting each other for the first time. Christian smoothed his sweaty hands across his corduroys. Someone walked past his mother and him, and a strange trail of perfumes and colognes tickled his nostrils. He coughed.

  His mother patted him on the back, asking him if he was all right. He said he was, but that he needed a drink.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water,” she said. “I’ll be right back.” She unwrapped her arms from around him and stood. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said, kissing the top of his head and brushing her soft-gloved hand across his cheek. He liked the way the silky glove felt on his face.

  He watched his mother walk across the room, looking back once to flash him a quick smile. Something in her face told him everything would be all right. As she reached the doorway, he saw her bend over, crying, and a woman with white hair touched her on the back, saying something he couldn’t hear. He wanted to run after his mother and ask her what was wrong, but she disappeared around the corner before he could pull himself off the chair and follow her through the maze of people in the room.

  * * * *

  She was gone for ten minutes, maybe longer. When she returned with a paper cup filled with water, Christian noticed his mother was happier, her face clear and dry of tears.

  “Did you go up to see Aunt Betty?” she asked, handing him the cup.

  He sipped at it, his hands trembling. “No, I’m scared,” he said, thanking her and handing the cup back to her.

  “Why are you scared, young man?”

  “I don’t want to see Aunt Betty dead.”

  Lori sat down beside her son and draped an arm over his small shoulders. “Does death scare you?”

  He nodded.

  “Death shouldn’t be scary to a child.”

  “Will I die?” he asked.

  “Everybody and everything dies one day.”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “You’re not going to, not for a long, long, long time. Just be happy, Chrissy. Enjoy life. Every day.”

  “Will you and Dad die?”

  There was a long pause as if everyone in the room turned to ice. Lori and Christian were the only two sitting, talking and holding hands.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” his mother said.

  “Why?”

  “Death is never pleasant.”

  Lori cleared her throat, and as she shifted into a more relaxed position next her son, she brushed a tear running down her face.

  “Are you sad, Mom?” Christian asked.

  “A little.”

  “Does Aunt Betty’s death make you sad?”

  She looked down at her son and nodded, her eyes glassy and glistening.

  “I won’t leave you, Mom,” he said. “I promise.”

  As they sat quietly, watching the other mourners paying their respects to Aunt Betty—a mother, sister, friend, wife, aunt—Lori reached down and clasped Christian’s hand in hers.

  Dad and Uncle Willy stood at the front of the room by the entrance, talking, gesturing with their hands, getting acquainted after all these years. Christian watched as his father slapped Uncle Willy on his broad back, and turned and wove his way through the room to get to them.

  “Henry, dear, how are you feeling?” Lori asked.

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You look pale,” she said. “Drawn.” She released Christian’s hand, and looked up at Henry, frightened. “Maybe we should go home.”

  “Lori, dear, I’m fine,” he said. “I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long week.”

  “Maybe you should sit down,” Lori said, standing and motioning for him to take her seat.

  “I’m fine,” he repeated, his voice changing, getting louder. Angrier? “How are you doing, Chrissy?” he asked, looking down at his son.

  Christian shrugged. He wanted to say, “I hate my childhood name, Chrissy. It sounds like a girl’s name, and makes me feel weak.”

  “Have you been up to see your Aunt Betty yet?” Henry asked him.

  His father made him feel guilty as if it was a quick, easy gesture of hello and goodbye, or see you tomorrow.

  Christian shook his head, feeling nervous. He tucked his hands under his legs, his palms sweaty and shaky.

  “You’re going to miss her if you don’t say goodbye,” he told his son.

  “I’m going to miss her anyway,” Christian said.

  Lori moved to the side and got lost in a conversation with a tall lady he didn’t know. His mother glanced at him between scraps of conversation with the woman.

  Henry plopped down on the seat next to his son on the sofa, his hand smacking Christian’s leg. “If you want to talk about anything, son, anything at all, I’m here.”

  Christian nodded.

  “You promise?” Henry said, reaching out and teasing him with his lobster claw hands, pinching at the seams of Christian’s loose pants.

  Christian tilted his head to the side. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Anything. Everything. I want you to be honest with me. I want you to feel comfortable talking to me.”

  “I am. I will.”

  “You’re my son, Chrissy. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Dad.”

  Henry looked away from him, to the corner of the room where Uncle Willy swigged drink after drink, then glanced back at Christian. “Remember what I said, Chrissy.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?” he said, placing his strong hand on Christian’s.

  “Promise.”

  Christian noticed his father’s forehead glistening with sweat from the hot ceiling lights and the warm bodies in the room.

  “Are you feeling all right, Dad?” he asked. “Mom’s right. Maybe we should go home.”

  “Not before you say goodbye to Aunt Be
tty. It’ll be the last time you see her.”

  It was an effort to swallow, but Christian scooted up to the edge of the sofa where his father was sitting, legs turned out as if he was sitting on his couch at home watching TV, and pulled his hands out from beneath his legs. “I’m…scared,” he told his father.

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  He didn’t answer. He sat there, staring across the room to where Aunt Betty laid sleeping.

  “Do you want your mother to go with you?”

  Lori overheard them talking about her and excused herself from her talk with the tall, dark-haired woman. Lori came over to Christian and squatted beside him, mussing his hair, looking tired. “Come on,” she said, holding out her hand. “Let’s go together.”

  Christian reached a hand out to his mother. Henry encouraged his son with a pat on the back. Christian heard his father tell his mother that he was going to say goodbye to his friends, and find Uncle Willy, and headed towards the lobby.

  * * * *

  Slowly, Christian and Lori ambled over to the long line of funeral-goers saying their final goodbyes to Aunt Betty, Lori gripping Christian’s hand as if she were afraid she’d lose him in the throng of people. Christian’s small fingers brushed the gold bracelet his father had gotten for her on their anniversary.

  Christian and Lori waited behind two gossipy old women, whispering between themselves. They were women Christian didn’t know or see come around the house. His mother later told him when they got home that the two women were Aunt Betty’s sisters. A flashy, gaudy duo, his mother had described them, with all their fake pearls and dyed hair and loud mouths.

  Christian asked his mother why older women wore younger girl’s clothes. “Maybe they’re afraid of getting old,” she had answered. “Young clothes and dyed hair make them feel younger.”

  Christian looked up at his mother as they moved sluggishly towards Aunt Betty’s coffin. She tapped him on the arm and leaned down, asking him, “Are you all right, Chrissy?”

  He shook his head.

  “There’s no reason to be scared,” she said, looking up at a man standing behind them and gesturing with a finger that they’d be a minute, maybe two.

  Christian wiped his nose on his father’s tie.

  “No, Chrissy,” she said. “Your father will be mad if he knows you blew your nose on his tie.”

  Christian took a deep breath and blew it out.

  Lori gathered him under her arm. She pulled herself up to her full five and a half feet and shook his hand gently, the gentle rhythm of her jangling bracelets calming him.

  As they approached the coffin, Aunt Betty looked peaceful, asleep, and praying. Maybe, Christian thought, if I poked her she’d wake up and take me to get a double fudge sundae at Barney’s ice cream shop. Tonight would be the perfect evening for ice cream. He and Lori stepped closer to the pew, and following his mother’s actions, Christian leaned down beside her in front of Aunt Betty.

  At the sight of his sleeping aunt, Christian was overcome with emotions. Sadness took the shape of tears, and he couldn’t control it this time. He cried hard and steady, his small body trembling. He felt his mother’s arms around him, her kind hand soothing away the rough edges of the moment.

  She asked if he wanted to go home. He told her no.

  Then he heard his father’s voice in his head: “You’re my son. I love you.”

  Christian hugged his mother, and her gentle perfume smelled like germaniums in the air. “Aunt Betty is at peace,” he heard his mother whisper to him.

  Then the quiet moment was broken with Uncle Willy’s noisy laughter behind him, somewhere in the room, which reminded him of something his uncle had told him when Christian was younger. “When people die, their lips are sewn together.”

  Christian didn’t know why Uncle Willy would tell him such silly things. Maybe that was why Dad and Uncle Willy didn’t get along so well, Christian thought.

  Christian stood and peeked into the coffin to see Aunt Betty’s face. He had not known Aunt Betty to wear any makeup. Her face looked clownish, he thought, her lips full and dark and as red as an apple. Her eyebrows were two wide dark lines painted together. He had heard family members making jokes that ‘Aunt Betty has a unibrow.’ He didn’t know what they meant until he leaned closer in. He turned to his mom. “Is it true, Mom?”

  “What, Chrissy?”

  “Does Aunt Betty have a unibrow?”

  Fighting back laughter, she looked away, shaking her head. “For goodness sakes, where’d you hear that?”

  “Dad.”

  Christian recalled his mother staring at him like he had three heads.

  “Never mind,” she said. “Don’t repeat it, please.”

  Christian wanted to reach out and touch Aunt Betty on the shoulder and tell her he loved her; that he’d miss her. But he kept his hands at his side as if he was in a museum and he couldn’t touch the property.

  He lowered himself back into a kneeling position and turned to his mother. “Are Aunt Betty’s lips sewn shut?” he asked.

  She looked at him, confused. “Who told you that?”

  “Uncle Willy.”

  She sniffed and wiped her nose on a tissue. “Uncle Willy is watching too many horror movies.”

  “But is it true, Mom?”

  She balled up her hands and stared down at her sister. “I don’t know, Chrissy,” she sighed. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to talk about such things.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re too young to understand.”

  “I’m seven,” he said confidently.

  She cuddled him. “You’re still too young.”

  “Can I touch her?”

  “Why do you want to touch her?” There was panic in his mother’s voice.

  “I want to touch Aunt Betty,” he said. “Say goodbye.”

  He remembered the puzzled look on his mother’s face.

  “Her sisters got to kiss her,” he told her.

  “That’s different,” Lori said.

  “Why’s it different?”

  “Because they’re close, they’re family.”

  “She’s my aunt,” he said.

  Christian watched his mother bring her hand to her face, and touch her eyes to shut them. She nodded. “Quickly,” she whispered, and looked away, as if what he was doing was wrong.

  Christian felt sick to his stomach, staring down at his aunt. He clenched down on his teeth like his father did to help him sleep at night.

  Reaching out to touch Aunt Betty’s hand felt weird. He glanced at her peaceful face, and hoped she would open her eyes and yell at him for waking her out of a deep sleep.

  * * * *

  “Aunt Betty isn’t coming back,” his father told Christian later that night when he was tucking his son into bed, drawing the comforter up to his chest and leaning over him to kiss him goodnight.

  “I don’t understand death,” Christian said.

  “You don’t have to,” he said.

  “Where do people go when they die? Where will Aunt Betty go?”

  “Some people believe in heaven. Some people believe that when you’re dead, you’re gone forever. Your physical body is replaced with memories of the deceased.”

  “What does that mean?” Christian asked, rubbing his tired eyes.

  “When you die, your body is not on earth anymore. But your spirit stays.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Henry brushed a strand of his son’s hair out of his youthful face.

  Christian heard his mother in the kitchen, fixing Dad something to eat. Pans and utensils clattered. The oven door opened and closed.

  “The living is left with smells and sounds of their loved ones,” Henry said.

  “Like ghosts?” Christian asked.

  Henry laughed. “No, no, nothing like that. The only memories we have of our families and friends when they die are their scents, like perfume, or maybe it is a song we hear on the radio that remind
s us of them.”

  “How about their clothes?” Christian asked.

  Henry nodded, his eyes heavy with sleep. “And photographs.”

  Satisfied with what his father was saying, Christian curled up under the blankets, looking up at his father and smiling, his eyes closing slowly.

  Henry reached down and kissed his son one last time on the forehead until he reached across the bed and turned out the lights. “Sleep tight, Chrissy. I love you.”

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  A flash of my father’s smile and the way he grumbled my childhood nickname, Chrissy, knocked me awake in the dead of night, my arms and legs convulsing, flailing, and kicking, and my heart banging, triggering a scream from the back of my throat as if I was being attacked. The bed sheets were drenched in sweat.

  I heard the panic in my husband’s voice when I woke him, the bed creaking and shifting beneath our impulsive movements.

  Our dog Darth Vader yelped and jumped off the bed to the floor as my haste to free myself from my dreams disturbed him.

  I felt Philip’s firm grip on my arm, rattling me out of my second nightmare this week.

  “Christian,” he said, groping in the dark for the bedside lamp and filling the room in warm, yellow light.

  I sat upright, the sheets knotted around my waist and ankles.

  The circular motions of pressure in Philip’s stimulating massage felt soothing. The tips of his fingers kneaded the kinks in my neck and spine. I closed my eyes.

  “You all right?” Philip’s deep-baritone voice eased the tension of the moment. “It sounded like you were fighting for the last slice of apple pie from dinner.” Philip handed me a glass of tepid warm tap water, and I managed a lopsided grin.

  I gulped it down in one pull. “I wish that’s all it was.”

  “Were you dreaming about your dad again?”

  I nodded.

  Silence stretched into seconds, minutes. Philip said, “Do you want to talk about it?”

  I handed him the empty glass and turned to the dark canvass of night stretching beyond our bedroom window to the edge of the woods. “Regrets are toxic.”

  “What do you regret?”

  My mouth was dry, and I needed more water. “Not being with my father in Arizona right now. I feel like I’ve failed him.”